Pikes in Panic
Keep It Cool and Dry

Hey, Teddy Boy of the '80s, where have you gone?
And where have your leopard print Brothel Creepers gone? Have you switched to NeroGiardini too? The fire you swore was eternal? Also lost along the roughness of the filigree in the compartments of your wallet? You who walked around with a comb in the inside pocket of your blazer and Linetti always handy, have you forgotten the smell of the basement?
Okay, the comb would be of little use today, but the ears, they're still there and they work, yet you only use them to hear your son turning the keys in the lock at three thirty in the morning.

Don't speak, I know how you feel.

Quite a bit of time has passed, spent on futile nonsense and the obsessive feeding of your ego that eventually imploded. You've gotten what you wanted. A chair in the office that reproduces the image of your ass like the famous shroud, an account that makes you proudly proud and at the same time ignorant of the reasons why you obsessively have to feed it every day, and a son, yes, the one you idealized one summer night in the '80s, fantasizing about his traits, hair color, or eyes while "Summer Girl" by Pikes In Panic frantically played, that son who today disturbs the balance of your home with Sfera Ebbasta's songs.

There you go! You asked for it!

You lived and burned with psychobilly and rockabilly, drank hectoliters of alcohol, all in full discretion while today they make songs with the names of cocktails. Remember you were the one who struck matches on the zipper of your leather jacket while now without the electric ignition on the stove you wouldn't even know how to make a coffee.

How did you end up? Are you really sure it's not that bad?

Okay, let's do something: take out Keep It Cool And Dry and place it calmly on the record player. Turn off the ringtone on your phone. Actually, go to the window and let it slip out. Lower the arm and lend an ear.

It's garage rock and it burns fast, less than three minutes per piece, so I recommend holding your pee; otherwise, you'd miss one and that would be a shame. Once upon a time, you knew these things well, but time has put dust in your memory and incontinence in your bladder. But today is (after 20, 30 years?) the time to rediscover yourself, your forgotten fantastic world, and that LP that hasn’t spun for a lifetime.

Ah yes, I know this feeling, the memories slowly resurface.

There you go, good, now you remember when to impress the girl you said: "Look, many cute things were born here with us, far from Koizumi's bob cut." It seemed like a great statement. Today instead it sounds like a big joke, but you know what? It makes you smile, and you haven't done so for a long time. And you feel almost like dancing to "Sunday Love," a latent jolt that has always dwelled in your body and now, suddenly, it seems unable to wait another minute. You forgot these twelve molotovs that for so long ignited your passion. How could you?

Pikes In Panic lived through just one great, exciting season that you believed would never end. Then the dinners with the in-laws, salsa and merengue lessons, and the scale that took control of your life swallowed you up forever. But this time keep the record in view, dust it off from time to time. Do it for yourself and who knows, maybe also for your son, who might one day thank you for discovering that after Sfera Ebbasta, music finally begins.